


Ruling Heart of Glaciers

by IdiotWriterEgg



Series: The Tides Call, The Frost Goes [2]
Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Will figure out the tags and chapter titles as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23129809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdiotWriterEgg/pseuds/IdiotWriterEgg
Summary: I am someone who didn't die when I should've....All he ever wanted in life was to have a true family, a true home. When memories of his true mother and visions of his lost homeland come to him during and after an assassination attempt, Areyan decides to leave Pars and go with his uncle to rebuild Mardalia. The fallen nation which would've been his homeland.As Areyan travels in to the Northsea, He discovers about his parents, about the fallen Mardalia, about the attitude the world held towards Mardalia in the past.
Relationships: Alfreed & Arslan (Heroic Legend of Arslan), Alfreed & Farangis (Heroic Legend of Arslan), Arslan & Daryun (Heroic Legend of Arslan), Arslan & Elam (Heroic Legend of Arslan), Arslan & Gieve (Heroic Legend of Arslan), Arslan & Narsus (Heroic Legend of Arslan), Arslan (Heroic Legend of Arslan) & Other(s)
Series: The Tides Call, The Frost Goes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662556
Comments: 29
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Stormborn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877970) by [blackkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat). 



> FINALLY I'M ABLE TO POST AFTER NEARLY AN HOUR OF WRESTLING WITH AO3 AND CHROME.
> 
> A highly self-indulgent AU fic of Arslan Senki, inspired by the Naruto fic Stormborn!

**Pars era 317**

Arslan is eleven when his caretakers die.

Arslan is eleven when he is brought to the palace to be raised as a prince.

Arslan is eleven when his grief is shoved to the wayside to make way for preparing him to be a "good prince".

He rests his elbows on the window sill, his eyes observing what he can see of the palace.

The palace of Pars, of Ecbatana, is grand: stone upon stone and pillars in rows. Paintings, statues and gemstones line the majesty of walls and the vitality of green sit in places all over to bring vegetative life into the royal abode.

A palace of many coloured and shining white stones bound with gold, a palace surrounded by strong, earthy walls.

A palace of grandness and beauty.

Soldiers, servants and maids hurry along their paths, some laughing, some stern, some grumbling, at least when they think nobody's around.

Yet, Arslan finds the palace to be incredibly empty.

Nobody talks to him, not really, not even when Arslan himself reaches out to them.

Vaphriz is kind. He encourages and praises Arslan even when the Prince messes up in his training. But Vaphriz is a busy man, as he is the Eran of Pars, so he must attend to his duties that King Andragoras, Arslan's father, assigned to him.

So Vaphriz cannot find the time to actually _talk_ with Arslan the way his now deceased caretakers did.

Kishward lets Arslan play with Azrael and Soroush when he or the birds visit. He is a friendly and cheerful man, and Arslan hopes that he knows how grateful he feels for having the chance to play with his two hawks.

Because he is no longer allowed to play with other children, ever since his caretakers died.

But his time with Kishward is awfully short. He, like Vaphriz, has much to do. It certainly doesn't help that Kishward lives in Peshawar, in the far East.

But still, Arslan is grateful nonetheless.

Daryun, Vaphriz's nephew, is stern but bright, and tells good jokes. But he often gets smacked in the head by his uncle because the jokes are, apparently, "inappropriate". Saying that "His Majesty the King won't be pleased".

Arslan swallows the urge to laugh. Since when did his father ever care?

His father the King sent Daryun off to Serica on a mission. It hasn't even been a month, but Arslan misses him already.

But nobody knows, and nobody cares.

The prince sighs and heads towards his room.

Arslan settles in and doesn’t move from his spot in the corner of the spacious, sterile room.

No one shows up, no one comes looking for him or knocks on his door and asks where he’s at or what he's doing. Not even his parents. _Especially_ his parents.

But then Arslan isn’t actually expecting them to. His lessons and training for the day is over, and nobody has any sort of obligation to come to him until it's time for dinner.

Now, with Daryun gone, Vaphriz with other Marzbans and his father, his mother in her room, and the maids and slaves doubtlessly hard at work already in the kitchens and other areas, there’s not actually anyone left who might come looking for him.

That thought in mind, Arslan just curls up into a ball, puts his back to the wall, and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t fall asleep, only sitting there in silence, arms wrapped tightly around himself and hands buried in his own hair, until he hears a faint knock on his door.

  
  
  
  
  


Arslan is eleven when he **dies**.

Arslan stands there in the garden, enjoying the cool breeze, under a sky of starlight and full moon. The silence in daytime is … suffocating. Nighttime is silent too, but … 

It's his choice to be alone and surrounded by silence at night. The thought eases his heart somehow.

  
  
  


He closes his eyes and sighs when a hand violently grabs his throat.

He tries, but before he could scream-

  
  
  


_Cherry red blood seeping out of his throat, he tries to scream but all he can taste is red red red blood it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts- it's getting dark dark dark and now he's_ **_numb_ **

  
  
  


_"Live!"_

_"You are a_ **_Mardal_ ** _!"_

_"-my son!"_

_"-mnit, live! You are a_ **_survivor_ ** _and you will_ **_live_ ** _!"_

_"My son … "_

_"I'm so sorry."_

_"Everyone will keep you happy and safe."_

_"Your na-"_

_…_

_…_

**_"Areyan."_ **

  
  
  
  
  


He sees the golden sunlight colouring the white, white roofs, taste the salty air, feel the soft crunch of snow underneath his feet. Intricate patterns of ice float weightlessly downward from the vast blue sky above, each flake swirling and dancing, as an icy wind carried it toward the city of magic, a home to many, a home to him. Breath pale against the numbing air, Areyan blinks thoughtfully as the frost patiently kisses his face, captivated by the soft, dusty illusions of light that sits heavy on his eyelashes. He feels content, he feels at peace.

Then Arslan wakes up.

Ever since that day, he's been having dreams of snowy fields and chimes of bells, of wintry winds and playful waves, of _belonging_ and _comfort_.

The dreams are so vivid and strong that the flat taste of disappointment begins to hover around his days.

But sometimes, he dreams not of an _impossible_ place but of a _distant memory_.

A memory of being _cradled_ , being _held_ in the arms of a woman. A memory of said woman _pleading_ and _commanding_ him to **_live_ **.

He remembers the woman calling him _her son_ with so much love in her cracking voice. He remembers the woman planting a kiss on his forehead even with tears streaming down her face. He remembers gasping in shock, terrified breaths torn from his tiny lungs. He remembers blinking up at her in frightened bewilderment while she gave a wet, broken smile.

He remembers the name his mother gave him.

_Areyan_ , she said. _My child of glaciers_ , she whispered, full of pride yet full of sorrow.

_A mother._

He had a mother. A mother who truly _loved_ him, loved him so much that she sliced her stomach open to free her baby from the womb that was killing him.

It aches. It _stings_ and _wrenches_ and _hurts_ , and all Arslan _(but that's not his name, is it? He's not a lion, he's the sea, a glacier, and his mother's son. This name feels so_ **_wrong_ ** _.)_ can do is yearn.

He knows his hands are _trembling_ , knows that both hands are pulling and yanking at his own hair, _but he can’t feel them_.

All he can feel is the sharp, cold metal slicing his neck opem, choking him with his own blood, choking the breath and the very life out of him, the _warm warm warm blood_ slowly seeping out.

_He can’t breathe._

The sound that escapes him is sounds suspiciously like a sob.

No matter how deeply he tries to _breathe_ he feels as if it’s not _enough_.

_It might never be enough again._

Arsl- He thinks of all the time, days, weeks, months, he’s spent scanning the faces of his pare-, the King and the Queen, looking for any hint of familiarity, any bit of similarity to what he sees in the mirror everyday. Thinks of all the time he’d spent trying to find some tiny bit of himself in the Queen because _he doesn't look like the King_ **_at all_ ** _,_ but the more he looks at her, _the_ **_less_ ** _they look alike_.

And now, after all of that, after all of the stinging, aching, loneliness of not seeing any piece of himself in his supposed parents, his mother, _his **real** mother_, had been in his memory, in his heart.

Watching over him this entire time.

His bones feel like they’re too heavy to move and his eyes have no desire to open, to _see_ the reality he is in.

But he wakes up and goes on with his day anyways, his distant and beautiful dreams starkly contrasting the scalding hot and suffocating light of reality. He pretends he's not lonely, that _he's not hurting_ , and instead pushes himself to practice swordsmanship, to learn about the history of Pars and about the continental road, to try not listening to the _yearning_ , the voice that pounds in his head and whispers _this isn't home not home not home not home Come home little snowflake Come home little owl my very own come home and you'll find happiness._

_There's only burning glares and unbeating hearts and invisible walls here._

  
  
  
  
  


_CLANG!_

"Yes, above."

A swing.

"Yes, centre."

A miniscule gust of wind on his left, brought about by the motion of the sword.

"Yes, yes. Excellent!"

The swings and strikes are only becoming faster and faster, and soon enough Ars- his sword decides that his hand isn't the best place to be anymore.

The sword lands with a loud clang near the maids as he falls on his back.

"You are making tremendous progress, Your Highness! Excellent. Very excellent, indeed!" Vaphriz says with a hearty chuckle.

The boy sits up with only a nod and a hum of acknowledgement, his eyes still looking to the ground.

Vaphriz sighs. "Your Highness..."

"I am fine. Please do not worry," he says, all while gazing at the ground with a blank expression as the maids tend to him.

Ever since that night, Vaphriz has dropped by often to see his recovery progress, saying encouraging words. But he is still the Eran, and so he cannot stay by his side for more than a few minutes. He has been extra encouraging in training, but his strikes hold the same force as before.

He steps onto the palace corridor and there he sees his m- Queen Tahamenay walking vaguely in his direction, but no doubt heading for another place. Never to him. Never towards him.

"Swordsmanship, Arslan?" she asks, her tone flat and void of emotion. She does not look at him as she asks.

_I'm not Arslan._

He bites his tongue before the words come out. He doesn't want to respond, not to this tone, not to this voice, not to this name.

"Yes, mother."

The title _stings_ and _burns_ his tongue, but he pointedly ignores the taste of bile at the back of his mouth. He turns away from her and walks in the opposite direction.

  
  
  


The sound of fluttering wings makes the boy look up into the sky. He allows himself to smile just a little as he wraps a leather band around his arm.

"Azrael. Soroush."

His voice almost sounds like relief. Almost.

Azrael lands with such force that it throws the boy off his feet. Soroush lands on his shoulder and nuzzles into his hair. His talons hurt a little, but he cannot find it in himself to complain, basking in the affection of the two birds.

"Your Highness! Sir Vaphriz!"

The boy smiles at Kishward, who is in the process of striding up at them.

"Thank you for your work. Is everyone alright?" Vaphriz asks.

Arsla- He tunes out the rest of the conversation, instead turning his full attention to the two birds. From what he's heard, Kishward had been worried sick the moment he heard about the assassination attempt. He doesn't see Kishward, but he excuses that thought by reminding himself that Kishward is guarding their Eastern border, and should not just come to Ecbatana just for him. Even now, Kishward is here because of his fa-

Because of King Andragoras.

Kishward is back, so the King must also be back. He shudders at the thought.

"Your Highness, shall we go greet His Majesty the King?"

_I don't want to._

He nods.

  
  
  
  
  


"When I grow up, I'm gonna join the Calvary and protect the King!"

"You idiot! As if the King needs to be protected! He beat a lion when he was just 13!"

Vaphriz rides ahead to report to the King. He is left behind, still gazing at the ground.

"What about Prince Arslan?"

"Undependable … "

"We'll have to join the Calvary to protect him."

_I'm not Arslan._

He bites his tongue so hard that it bleeds. He shakes his head and forces himself to ride forward, to put up an act of a dead Prince.

  
  
  


He doesn't know what got into him, roaming the streets on foot, but he knows that he doesn't want to go back to the palace. That place is … stifling. Suffocating. Scalding.

He is snapped out of his foggy state when he hears three boys yell. He snaps his head around to see the Lusitanian boy charging at three boys. With a _knife_.

He doesn't know what got into him, stepping between them and getting captured in the process.

He cannot bring himself to care.

  
  
  
  
  


"Do you know where my comrades are?" Etoile yells as he drags the spoiled brat around.

Speaking of the spoiled brat … 

"Oi, answer me!"

The kid mumbled something.

"What was it?!"

_Gosh, what kind of person is he?! Is the Parsian brat mocking him?!_

" … I don't know."

"You _don't know?_ _Useless!_ "

The kid isn't even bothering to respond! In his rage Etoile runs over laundry baskets on the way.

Etoile's rage turns into bewilderment when he sees-

_The hell is that?!_

He cannot take his eyes off the _thing_ ( _why is its neck so long?!)_ , and that proves to be a mistake when he slips and falls.

A hand grabs his arm and drags Etoile up to a platform.

"Thanks, you saved-"

_Oh._

_It's the spoiled brat._

Etoile smacks his head without hesitation and drags him on the run.

"Do you know what those creatures are called?"

" … "

"Hey!"

_Oh Yaldabaoth save him! He's brought a rag doll!_

" … Hey." the kid starts.

"What do you want?" Etoile snaps.

"Why are you fighting?" he asks. "You're still a child, so why do you fight?"

_A child?!_

"I'm not a kid anymore! I'm already eleven!" he yanks the kid's arm.

" _Eleven?_ " His eyes show disbelief and bewilderment. "Then you're the same age as I!"

"When you turn this age, you become a proper warrior, don't you?" Etoile says with a sharp tone. "By my faith in Yaldabaoth, I'll purge the heretics!"

The brat pauses, likely in confusion. Is he a dimwit, too? "Why must you purge everyone else?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why not just coexist?"

_Coexist? Coexist with heretics? No way in hell!_

"Of course not!" he snaps his head around to glare at the hostage. "Our god, Yaldabaoth, treats people equally!" Etoile jabs a finger at the kid. "But what about your people? Placing people beneath other people, the _damn_ slave system? Yaldabaoth would _not_ allow something like that!" He puffs his chest. " _All_ people are _equal_!"

Just when Etoile prepares to continue, the brat cuts and says, "Do you … know your family?"

_"What?"_

  
  
  
  
  


The Lusitanian boy is … snappy. And short-tempered.

The young soldier's eyes flit from place to place, desperately searching for his comrades, all while harshly dragging him along. The boy looks so young, so he asks: _Why do you fight?_

The answer was … explosive.

But the young soldier seems to genuinely _believe_ in those ideals with no trace of doubt clouding his mind.

He's actually jealous of his captor.

He can't remember the last time he had any sort of _trust_ in _anyone_ . Or _anything_.

Still, he wants to know if there's a reason, _any_ reason, other than his ideals, for fighting.

He has been longing for his mother that he is pretty sure dead, he's never heard of his father's voice nor seen him, so he wants to _know_.

To know if the Lusitanian boy has a family that he himself never did. To know if the reason the young soldier struggles is because he wants to go back to his family.

So he asks:

_"Do you … know your family?"_

The soldier actually _stops_ in his tracks, just to stare at him with unbelieving eyes.

Then he snorts. "Of course I know! Did you think that we Lusitanians were that kind of savages? _I love my family, and they love me_ . I _will_ go back to them, _just you wait and see._ "

The soldier yanks his hair and runs again. "You've been asking a lot of questions, huh? Such an ignorant brat, I would _love_ to see your parents' faces!"

… 

… 

_But they're gone._

  
  
  
  
  


Shabrang huffs as a pair of calloused hands tend to him. From the outside of the shed, the roar of the crowds make its way to Daryun's ear.

It would make sense that Ecbatana would rejoice and celebrate yet another victory of Pars and the return of its King, but it feels ... different, _wrong_ somehow. He hears soldiers yelling and rushing all over the place.

Daryun sighs as he pets Shabrang's muzzle. "What's the ruckus about...?"

Shabrang only huffs again in response.

_Maybe I should go check on His Highness_ , he thinks to himself. A little bit of support may help the Prince feel better today, after all.

The thought of the prince makes Daryun clench his fist.

_He almost died_ , his breath catches in his throat. _He almost died when I was gone._

He'd done his best to help His Highness recover, and he sees that his presence helps the Prince just a little bit.

Yep, decided, he'll go visit the Pri-

"Daryun-sama!! It's terrible!!"

Just as Daryun turns his head around to see-

"Prince Arslan, he...!"

  
  
  
  
  


"Don't come any closer!" the Lusitanian boy tightens his grip around his neck. "Don't you care what happens to him?"

_Daryun came_.

He'll be released from the soldier's capture, he'll be able to-

_Then what?_

What comes after this? Will he have to go back to the palace? To _that place?_ Does he want that? Does he want to go back?

Before the horror sets in, his captor drags him and… And… 

  
  
  


_Falling_.

_He's falling._

_They're falling._

  
  
  


_Areyan sees the sea, lost in the rhythmic percussion of waves on sand. He sees the first snow, by the setting sun's rays it is cast a pinkish orange hue. The grass meadows show the first sign of snowfall,_ **_winter_ ** _, and he feels like he's where he belongs. Above him the sky is set ablaze with fiery colours, only broken by long trails of cloud, but for all its brilliant flame, the air remains frigid with a hint of more snow to come. The sun, now a sallow shadow of it's daytime self, sinks low to the hills, semi-eclipsed._

_Home_ , he yearns. _I want to go home_.

_I want to be truly me, I want to be my mother's son, I want to stop being Arslan._

_I want to be_ **_Areyan_ ** _._

  
  
  
  
  


He is snapped back to his dreadful reality once they land with a rather large splash.

  
  
  
  
  


He desperately gasps for air after struggling to reach to the surface.

He only half-feels the hands pulling him out of the moat, only half-hears the voices of concern and disbelief for him and the Lusitanian boy, which turns into yells of horror as the boy hops onto one of their horses and rides off into the sunset.

He turns his head and gazes up the wall to see... to see Daryun _aiming an arrow at the Lusitanian boy._

_"I love my family, and they love me. I will go back to them, just you wait and see!"_

" _Daryun_ !" he cries as if his life depends on it. " _Wait! Don't shoot!_ "

  
  
  


Daryun releases his bowstring.

  
  
  


The arrow misses.

  
  
  


In relief, he sags down like a stringless puppet, heavy desperate breaths still tearing through his lungs.

_Go home safe, little soldier_ , he thinks. _Soon I will too._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After wrestling with myself, chapter 2 is finally here!

Kazai wasn't expecting much when he decided to come to Ecbatana. He wasn't expecting it to be a particularly enjoyable stay, but this was beyond ridiculous.

The city gates were shut even though the sun hadn't properly set.

The looming walls seem even higher than ever, seemingly taunting him that he would never be able to climb over them to get into Ecbatana. The guards were not even being helpful, just shouting at everyone who wanted to enter to wait or they would be imprisoned.

He resisted the urge to just punch their faces. Resisted the urge to just _scale_ the damn walls they were so proud of.

But then, he sees two figures _jump off the wall! Off the motherlandly_ **_wall_ ** _!_

_Well_ , he thinks to himself as he rubs the back of his head, all while rushing to the area where the two brave souls had splashed in the moat. _Gotta praise their balls! That's one way of getting outta the city!_

He and a few others pulled the kids (they were just _kids!_ ) out of the water and then… 

_Oh_.

For a moment Kazai sees _Ayunnen_ ——white hair aglow with the last orange rays before twilight that seemed to beckon the stars to shine, just like the white, massive, majestic glaciers in the dusk from _before_ — 

The spell is broken as the kid looks up at him. In that one moment between breaths, Kazai's heart _stops_.

Eyes blue as the ocean, so brilliantly _blue_ that he _drowns in them_.

_Kashi's eyes._

The kid parts his lips, as if to say something, before abruptly turning to look at his companion. Said companion had stolen a horse and rode off into the sunset. The boy then turns his head up the wall, straight at a man aiming an arrow at the fleeing kid.

"Daryun! Wait! _Don't shoot!_ "

Kazai wonders if something like a desperate cry could sound like a noble command. He hears Kashi, when she commands their tiny troops, or when she knows that they've done really, _really_ wrong.

Why does he keep seeing the two in this kid? What if he's not their child? What if he's _not_ his nephew?

  
  
  


He very much doesn't want to even consider it.

  
  
  
  
  


The white-haired boy finally relaxes only after he sees the arrow miss its mark. A gentle smile graces his face, so much like _Ayunnen_ that it _pierces_ Kazai's heart.

  
  


When he finally turns around to properly _look_ at Kazai, his eyes, _Kashi’s eyes_ widen in wonder as he properly takes a look at one of his saviors. "You look just like her," the kid murmurs, his eyes still wide. He gasps, clapping a hand on his mouth in a futile attempt at containing what had already slipped out. "Oh, I apologize… It must not make sense… "

A memory flashes through Kazai’s mind, a name on the edge of his lips ready to be _set free_.

  
  
  
  
  


_"So..." Kazai leans on the tree, staring at a field of red. "What are you gonna name your little bean?"_

_Kashi looks up from the red cluster amaryllis in her hands to Kazai, a rare not-sharp smile lifting the corners of her lips. She puts the flower down, closes her eyes and whispers her answer to the winds._

_"That's a nice name," Kazai says, his eyes drawn to a napping Ayunnen under the same tree, doing a splendid job of attracting crows; he already had one on each shoulder and two more were prancing not too far from his sleeping form._

_He ponders the answer, the name, and feels something like pride in his heart._

_Glacier. Ice. North. Mardalia. Home._

_"I'm looking forward to meeting you… "_

  
  
  


**_" … Areyan."_ **

  
  
  
  
  


The name finally slips to the forethought of his mind as he connects the child in front of him to _them_ . Kashi’s and Ayunnen’s features, a perfect blend of both, taunting him with the possibility of _what if ..._

  
  


"Yes."

Kazai is snapped out of his musing by the soft spoken answer, belatedly realizing that he spoke the name out loud and not in his thoughts.

"That's… my name, isn't it? It's the name my mother gave me, isn't it?" the kid continues, blue eyes still fixed on his. "You look a lot like her, the woman I know is my mother. Do you know my parents? Do you know who I am?" he asks with a shaky voice.

Kazai cannot take his eyes off the kid's, _Areyan's_ eyes. In those eyes he sees the ocean, sees the night sky, sees _his sister._

"Your Highness, are you alright?" It was the man who had shot the arrow from the top of the wall, running towards Areyan as he shouted his worry. His timely intervention had stopped Kazai from answering the questions.

_Your Highness?_

_Areyan_ struggles to take his eyes off Kazai, but turns to the approaching man anyway. "I'm fine."

"Why did you tell me not to shoot, Your Highness?"

The kid, _his nephew_ , sighs and stands up. Even among hasty, shouted chatter and commands like "After him!" and "He escaped on a horse!", _Areyan's_ voice stays clear and calm as he says, "He has a family. He has a home. Who am I to keep him from that?"

The man's eyes widen in surprise, before softening into a smile. "Let us go back, Your Highness. I'm sure His Majesty will be-"

"No."

  
  
  


A single word, spoken _firmly_ and _steadily_ , attracts the attention of those around him. Areyan sighs again, and says, "His Majesty the King has never been worried for me before. I doubt that he will even notice if I'm gone."

_"He was carried about by a slave?"_

_"So dangerous!"_

_"What is he saying? Of course the King would worry!"_

Ars- Areyan directs his eyes to the ground, hands clutching his clothes. Shallow and rapid breaths start to dominate his rhythm. No, he can't have another of those episodes here! Not here, not when he's surrounded by people!

He feels a weight leaning onto his back. He glances behind to see that it was the head of that man. The person who _knew his name._

Areyan catches his quiet and few words. He feels something like relief and he nods. Just slightly, so nobody would notice.

  
  
  


The next few moments pass without him registering anything properly. He vaguely recalls those three boys from earlier apologizing with teary eyes. He vaguely remembers seeing the corpses of the captured Lusitanian soldiers. He recognize Daryun's voice saying something about having a friend he wanted Areyan to promote when he becomes King.

He absently recalls thinking, _I'm sorry but I'm not going to be King_ , to himself.

The clearest thing he remembers, the only aspect he cannot, _will not_ , forget or erase is the man who looked so much like his mother.

_"Go,"_ he said. _"Don't worry. I'll send a messenger."_

He hangs onto those words, that _promise_ , and waits.

  
  
  
  
  


The promise is fulfilled.

  
  
  
  
  


Areyan's eyes dart towards the window when he hears a deep, deep meow.

Sitting on the windowsill is a magnificent creature, an enormous cat with a sturdy body and glossy fur the colour of shadows in night water, only made visible by the silvery moonlight streaming through the window. With paws crossed before its torso and a mane of ebony, the feline's rib cage expands and falls with the rhythm of deep calm and lull, tail swaying quite lazily in the back.

Areyan is snapped out of his trance when the large feline leaps onto his lap with another meow. He chuckles and gently dotes on the cat. It makes a small trill and pushes its head against Areyan's hand. His eyes widen when he sees a miniature scroll hidden in its fur.

Taking the scroll from the cat, he reads the whole message with care and tries to burn every word into his memory.

Then he _smiles_.

  
  


_‘Little owl,’_ tens of thousands of voices croon in the dark of the night, in the shadows of his dreams,something whispers in the back of his head, overlapping and harmonizing, a whisper and a roar, like the crash of waves on a coastline he has never seen. _‘Little prince, tiny glacier, my own, my very very own. Come home. Come home. Come home. Come make a home. Come build a home over the tides and storms that love you. Home. Home. Come to me. Come back home to me.’_

The calls have not ceased.

They will never cease.

He _knows_ it.

From what he has learned, _his uncle_ may be reluctant of this very idea.

But, the place _calls_ , his _soul_ calls.

And he can't ignore.

So he steels himself to tell his uncle of his goal.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Time passes.

At first, it seems like nothing.

A spark of determination seems to have lighted in His Highness Arslan. He is often seen at the library, going through book after book, scroll after scroll. He also looks eager to be training with Vaphriz, too.

Vaphriz feels something dissolve in his mind. He sighs with relief as the Prince asks for another round of sword fighting.

Well, if the Prince finally desires, who is he to deny?

  
  
  


Time passes.

The Crown Prince grows more and more distant for reasons nobody cannot understand.

  
  
  


Time passes.

Daryun keeps running into scraps of paper adorned with ominous warnings and vague clues, clues to what, he doesn't know, but… 

He will have to investigate.

  
  
  


Time passes.

Daryun starts _seeing_ the Crown Prince and he sees the way he moves, sees the way he _learns_ and _grows_ and _flows_ and it’s a bit … unsettling for some reason even though it's supposed to be a good thing that His Highness has gotten so much more active.

It’s just there’s something _more_ to the way the Crown Prince does those things.

  
  
  


And then small things start adding up.

The way he becomes more and more unresponsive and withdrawn all while showing a sudden interest in learning.

The way he keeps looking forward to night, and when asked his answer is, "I like the quiet."

The way he keeps looking _north_ with a lost look in his eyes.

The unfamiliar moves and stances he uses in swordsmanship training even though there's nobody else to teach him.

The way the Prince shoots a _smile_ at the exact moment Daryun runs into a piece of _that trail_ he is following.

He gets a look at how he carries himself and feels like something's not _right_.

He's getting better, faster, sharper in a way that … _doesn’t feel right._

He's just a step off normal in a way nobody can exactly explain and it all builds and builds until it becomes obvious that something is _different_.

Daryun wonders why neither the King nor the Queen has said anything about this.

  
  
  
  
  


**Pars era 318, first month**

Areyan slowly walks towards the throne room, the steady presence of Vaphriz behind him.

He feels something he doesn’t want to admit as _fear_ twisting thick and heavy in his chest.

His heart’s been pounding and his stomach’s been a churning mess ever since Vaphriz informed him that the King wanted to meet him.

Four months.

Areyan has been living in the palace of Ecbatana for four entire months.

Four months.

It has been four months since that incident turned his world upside down.

It has been four months since he started hearing the calls of his would've been homeland.

It has been four months since he met that Lusitanian boy.

It has been four months since he has met his uncle, who has been sending letters with his cat every few days.

This is the first time he’s ever actually been _summoned_.

Blood, salty and metallic, blooms across his tongue then and Areyan forces himself to stop picking at his lower lip with his teeth.

Why does the King want to see him now?

Is it because … 

Is it because he noticed that something was off?

He can't afford to let the King find out about what he's doing, what he's /planning/. Not now, not ever.

Not when it is _almost_ complete, with only _one_ variable that might end up screwing over the entire thing.

Daryun might not … 

He'd rather not think of that possibility.

"We've arrived, Your Highness."

He walks towards the King, forcing himself to kneel down before him.

Sitting upon a throne of gold crested with several jewels and decorative metals forming an elegant coat of arms, King Andragoras the Third looks down at his supposed son.

Areyan says nothing, only meets the King's eyes with what he hopes is apathy.

"Arslan," the King calls.

Bile rises at the back of his throat. Anger churns in his rib cage. His vision dims.

_That's not_ _my name_.

"Yes, Your Maje-"

_Oh no_.

_He wasn't supposed to-_

_But the King is not-_

_He'll definitely get suspicious!_

_Maybe he can… he can… ?_

Areyan's eyes dart from place to place, looking anywhere except the King.

But… he can't move.

_He can't move he can't can't can't can't can't-_

"Oh? What were you about to call me, Arslan?" the King asks in a deceptively light tone, raising his eyebrow. "I'm your father, am I not?"

_The world is spinning too fast he can't hear Vaphriz he can't see can't see can't hear can't_ **_breathe_ **

_His chest hurts it hurts hurts hurts spinning spinning why why why why_

"Your Highness!"

… He tears his teary eyes off the floor and directs them at Vaphriz.

Eyes wide and still panting, he turns to the King.

"F… f- fa… father… "

Something hot and acidic stings his tongue. He swallows it back down.

_You're not my father you killed-_

" **Come!** " Andragoras stands abruptly, grabbing for his sword. "Let us see if Vaphriz's praises hold true."

Areyan stands up with shaking legs, trying to at least stand stably before chasing after his fa-

The King.

_Why why why you've been ignoring me for so long why now-_

Areyan draws long breaths as he follows Andragoras.

What is it that he cannot afford to show? What can he do, to take suspicions off of him?

The King wanting to test him must mean that he has exposed way too much.

This cannot do. This means that he'll get caught if he stays for too long.

His plans will have to be accelerated, it seems.

Should he be honest about his true abilities?

No, Andragoras will definitely draw parallels between Areyan and Kazai.

Should he play his skills down?

He'll get yelled at, but… 

He can take it. Probably.

"Your Highness!"

Ah.

It seems that they have arrived at the training grounds.

He takes his sword with a heavy heart.

  
  
  
  
  


Areyan sits in the corner of the room, lightly massaging his sore spots, which are placed almost everywhere on his body. He hisses a bit when he accidentally bumps his hand onto his other arm.

That was… quite a beating.

He might not have any hope of winning even if he was honestly using all he had. After the affair, the King went on the task of ignoring him.

_Good_.

Looking up from his bruised arms, he realizes that it has been a long time since he retreated into this corner for comfort. But that was in the past. A past that he will never look back upon.

He is pulled out of his thoughts when he hears a knock on his door.

A maid meekly calls out, "Your Highness? Ah, Her Majesty the Queen would like to meet you."

_First the King and now the Queen?_

"I'm coming," he says, hissing again as he forces himself to stand up.

Now, what could this be about?

  
  
  
  
  


Queen Tahamenay is still facing away from the door when Areyan enters. Areyan has been mentally preparing himself the whole way, so that he would not slip up like he did this morning.

Seems like it did not work very well.

He tries again and again to bring the word "mother" through his lips, but… 

"I heard you called Andragoras _Your Majesty_ ," she says, still not facing him. The maids all leave the room, the supposed mother and son alone.

Areyan does not answer.

"That wet nurse is dead, you know that."

_Why?_

Why bring her up?

Why bring up the person closest to a real mother?

He still does not speak. He merely keeps staring at the woman who is known to be his mother. But she _isn't_ , not by blood, not by _anything_.

She's only made his stay unbearable.

Tahamenay made a point to tell him that his caretakers were dead while he was sobbing and crying, with a stoic face that hid the glint in her eyes. 

For Royalty, there should've been no point in personally telling a child that their caretakers were dead while said child was mourning.

So why did she?

Why bring it up again now?

He's thought about it ever since the day he was retrieved from his former _home_ . He had been playing with his friends for as long as he remembered. At least until that day. Then suddenly he wasn't allowed to play _at all_.

He wondered, and _still wonders_ if there is any reason for this.

He can tell. Even in those days, he could tell that there was so much more at play than simply having him move to the palace. 

Areyan thinks of the many months of silence, only his voice and thoughts filling up his too spacious room. Thinks about the nights he'd spent curling up in a corner longing, _yearning_ for his friends and caretakers. Thinks about those days under the sun playing with the children of the Azat. He did not possess any sort of luxury in those days, but at least he wasn't living in that absolute silence that had crushed him from all directions. Silence that couldn't be broken, no matter how hard he tried.

"Stop being so petulant, Arsla-"

_"My name is not Arslan and you know it,"_ he spits out. "What do you want from me?"

The Queen finally turns to meet his eyes, her very own wide and frowned.

"You're planning something," she _states_. It's not a question. "Halt in whatever that you are planning, and stay put like a good child."

"And why should I?" his voice starts to shake.

"She's dead. They're dead. All of them are dead." Her gaze sharpens. "Do you not understand? _You have no one._ No one other than _us._ There will be nothing for you outside of these walls." She steps closer to Areyan.

"What did you do to them?" He takes a step back.

"That's not something you need to know." Tahamenay _smiles_.

Face red with suppressed rage, white knuckles from clenching his fist too hard, and gritted teeth from effort to remain silent, his hunched form exudes an animosity that was like acid - burning, slicing, potent.

_"Oh, I know alright. You… You and that King… you_ **_killed_ ** _them, didn't you?! They were_ **_innocent_ ** _!"_ he **snaps** . "Tell me, Queen Tahamenay. Tell me why both of you felt such a _need_ to have me ripped from my friends, my caretakers, to have me ripped from _my mother's corpse_?"

"Stop being so childish, Arsl-"

_"My name is_ **_not_ ** _Arslan!"_

"Maids… maids! It seems as though the Prince is _sick_. Please escort him to his room." Tahamenay strides away from him.

"As you wish, Your Majesty the Queen."

The voice is not that of the Queen's maids. It's-

" … Daryun?"

He doesn't like it. He doesn't like how his voice sounds so _weak_.

"Let us go, Your Highness." Daryun steps closer to Areyan and extends his hand.

Areyan forces his glare away from Tahamenay to look at the floor instead as he takes Daryun's hand.

He does not notice Daryun's worried gaze on him.

  
  
  


Areyan attempts to throw himself into _that corner_ again when they reach his room, only stopped by Daryun's gentle grasp.

"Your Highness, is it true… are those-"

"Yes," he barely manages to form that single word as he sobs into his hands, tears dripping between his fingers, falling down onto the carpet on the floor. Strength leaves his legs as he inhales short, ragged breaths. He sinks to his knees, not even caring about the jolt of pain that coursed through his body. He cries until no more tears come, telling Daryun of everything he has seen, everything he has known, everything he has planned.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_He's not enough_ , he knows.

_He's not needed, not dependable, not lovable._

_It hurts. It hurts to be "loved" on an obligation and a sense of duty. It hurts to be ignored as soon as their job is done._

_It hurts to be half-loved._

_I can do this_ , he thinks to himself.

_Even if I can't,_ **_I have to_ **.

_There's no place or allowance for doubt or failure in his heart. Not anymore._

  
  
  
  
  


Daryun sits on his bed, his mind running through everything he has caught in the last four months, through what he has heard from the Prin- the boy today.

_Small and lean with muscle, snowy white hair covering his eyes, the little Prince stares up at him from where he sits on the floor in a corner._

_"I am_ **_not_ ** _Arslan. I never was," said the Prince, the_ **_boy_ ** _. "I was stolen from my mother's corpse. Taken by the King who killed my true parents. Only living as a backup, an extra. All for the twisted love for a woman."_

_"I will say my name and make this offer as my true self tonight." the boy came to stand before Daryun._

_"Areyan. I am Areyan." he put a hand on his heart._

_"Will you wait for me in your room tonight?"_

Daryun said yes, not entirely sure on how he could make his way to Daryun's room. Perhaps he should've offered to go to him instead?

A shadow on the moonlit floor makes him look up to the window.

It’s Ars- _Areyan_ , so he slides out of bed and gestures the boy to slip past him into the room.

Daryun watches Arsla- _Areyan_ slide in through the open window with an ease most eleven year olds don’t possess, watches as he simply stands in the center of the room for a moment, surveying the smaller but almost as equally as /bare/.

With a deep breath, visibly steeling himself, His High- _Areyan_ ( _damn_ , he swears internally. _He keeps getting it wrong!_ ) takes the offered seat and twists his fingers in his lap. “Daryun,” he says, “Do you… do you know you're… you're incredibly important to me?”

Before Daryun brings himself to answer, he continues, "You know everything that I am, every secret of mine, you're the only one I wanted to _trust_ with this offer and information... "

"I'm... I'm honoured to know that you trust me, Yo-"

A terrified glance from the boy makes him skid to a halt and clear his throat.

"-Areyan. Thank you... "

"Would you... would you like to come with me? Come with us? To rebuild _that place_ I told you about? You are the only one dear enough for me to not want to lose."

Daryun looks into those eyes and all he sees is _blue_. Those eyes... Those eyes of his...

Familiar but not. A heavy burden weighs itself behind those eyes, but this gaze is... firmer. Stronger. As if the boy has resolved to commit to a task. The eyes light _brighter_ , brighter than before. Brighter than in those days.

It's obvious that leaving will only make the boy happier than he is now. And there is not quite anything to lose.

And that's all the convincing Daryun needs. With a faint huff, he reaches for his bag that has served him for _years_ now.

"Daryun?"

Gosh, he sounds so _hopeful_.

"I'm coming. I'm coming with you. You are dear to me as well, Y- Areyan." He stands. "We're going Northeast, is that right?"

Areyan sighs. "As _Queen Tahamenay_ said," he hisses the title and name like _venom_ , "I have no one in Pars. Not anymore. Pars will not make me happy. It doesn't _need_ me. I am not wanted. But... But that place... It _needs_ me. More, more than Pars does. I need it too. I need it like I need air to breathe."

“Northeast,” the boy confirms. “We’re going Northeast, to _Mardalia_.”

"You do know that we have to sneak out, right?"

"No worries. I've been studying the night guard patterns."

"For _how long?_ "

"For four months."

Daryun huffs. "Oh, good. I don't need to dispatch anyone, it seems."

Areyan _smiles._ "My uncle will be waiting. Let us go."

So they go.

  
  
  
  
  


What are walls to a storm?

  
  
  


Ecbatana's circular walls are tall and strong.

But they are meant to keep things out.

A snowstorm, a blizzard, is not a thing to be caged.

A chilly breeze picks up. It's the start, a prelude to what is coming.

The little owl takes flight into the winter skies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the two people who have commented, and all the people who left kudos!!


	3. Chapter 3

The world presents itself in tones of grey, the sun absent and the morning silent.

Vaphriz wakes up with a sense of wrongness hanging in the air like some sort of miasma, with a heartache for seemingly _no reason_.

The first thing he notes is the absence of Daryun in his room. Bed left untidy as ever, room lacking any sort of decoration or items. He must be fooling off somewhere else.

Vaphriz shouldn't be worried, not by any means.

Shabrang gives a strange neigh, which means that Daryun hasn't been here to tend to his horse.

The miasma threatens to invade his heart.

He shakes it away with a mental note to scold Daryun later.

It's not like Daryun's _gone_ , anyways. He's probably just out for a walk.

So why does he feel so uneasy?

The tip of the sun timidly peeks from between buildings, a misdirection from the stinging heat that will come very soon.

The morning is still silent.

The miasma still hangs in the air.

Vaphriz sighs and rubs his temples, trying to shoo the bad feeling away, trying to stop it from churning away at his stomach.

He wonders if His Highness Arslan is doing well.

Yesterday was… rather explosive. With the King shouting, yelling and not going easy on the Prince, Vaphriz can't find it in himself to blame the child if he were to feel unwell after that beating.

Vaphriz feels a twinge of guilt tugging at his heart. Perhaps he shouldn't have said those words to the King. Perhaps he should've stayed silent, letting the Prince grow at his own pace.

But, well, Vaphriz feels nothing but proud for this young boy, for his newfound determination and improvement. He let his paternal instincts take over and ended up bragging about this little sapling that had been revived from its wilted days.

And look at where it ended up.

Vaphriz inwardly makes a promise to make it up for His Highness somehow.

  
  
  
  
  


Only no, no he won't.

Vaphriz grits his teeth, breath halted, the piece of paper crumpling in his hands.

Because there is no Arslan to apologize to.

Just an empty room.

A _note_.

The miasma seizes his weary soul.

  
  
  


Vaphriz reads the note once. One more time. One more glance.

_Please don't come looking for me_ , it says.

It takes him longer than he cares to admit, longer than he should, to pull himself together.

When he does, he hurries to the King with a still aching heart.

He doesn't know if Daryun really took him, or if Daryun went off to search for the Prince. He doesn't know if the Prince willingly left or was kidnapped. It's highly unlikely that an eleven year old child will be able to leave by himself, so it must've been kidnapping.

If it was kidnapping, that doesn't explain the note left behind. The handwriting is, without a doubt, that of His Highness. Of course, handwritings can be forged, but... who apart from him and the tutors know what the Prince's handwriting looks like?

And it still doesn't explain why and how his nephew of all people was missing too. Did _he_ take the Prince? Were they even together?

He doesn't know when they left, or how much of a head-start they've got on him.

But he knows that he can't let it matter.

He has to find them.

_Assuming that they were together…_

  
  
  
  
  


An ache comes and goes, the wound still raw yet not so much anymore. It returns in quiet moments, moments supposed to be filled with them. Their absence weighs down his heart, carving out a void where they are supposed to be. Perhaps they will meet again in the future, yet Vaphriz knows not of what said future holds. His nephew is already framed as the kidnapper, his fate surely not of hope if he were to return. As for Arslan... 

The King and Queen will certainly not be happy about him if they finally meet again. Vaphriz fears that the Prince will be locked up or further isolated.

Which is the last thing the Prince deserves or needs.

He's pretty sure that is exactly what the King is planning to do.

_After all, he's done something like th-_

A weary sigh escapes as he shakes his head, driving the thought away.

It's been half a month.

Fifteen days.

And there's been no word on the whereabouts of his nephew and Prince Arslan. Only on places they're not in. On places the search parties haven't found them yet.

Said search parties _did_ catch up to them several times in the first few days.

But starting from the third day Daryun, the Prince and another man just... disappeared.

Sometimes they find trails but...

None of the trails led them to where they were.

All he can do is to keep searching for them.

But which way to go?

He thinks back to everything he knows about both of them. Tries to think of anything about his nephew that will point which way he is going to go.

The Prince in his arms with only one partner, possibly working towards some sort of goal. Can't, won't, go home.

"Narsus," he mutters to himself. "Safety. A _friend_."

Decision made, Vaphriz stands up to issue another search, this time with a clear direction.

Towards Daylam.

And the exiled former tactician.

  
  
  
  
  


Daryun is snapped out of his cozy slumber when he feels a round, hard object hitting his stomach at full speed.

"Get the hell off, you buffoon-"

"Make me, _braka_ ," Kazai says through gritted teeth, although it sounds too cheerful to contain any sort of malice. "This is revenge, revenge for all the times you kicked me in sleep!"

"I do _not_ -" He tries to sit up, the weight of Kazai's head on his torso pinning him down. "Get _off_."

" _Bra_ -"

A soft little groan emerges, followed closely by a yawn. Daryun turns his head sideways to barely make out the silhouette of Areyan rolling up a blanket in the dark.

Daryun finally sits up after Kazai has decided to free him from his misery, growling at the older man as he does so.

"Oh, come on. This is such a beautiful morning! I'm sure you don't want to miss out on it!" Kazai says, a cheeky grin gracing his damn face, standing up and walking towards Areyan.

_"Beautiful?"_ He almost yells. Almost. "Like I can see anything beyond _darkness_ ! Can't we start our day at _dawn_ instead of _technically night_?"

He already knows the answer, though.

The army started chasing them as soon as they noticed that both he and the supposed Prince were gone, which didn't take all that much time. He had to leave Shabrang behind, and thus if they don't want the searching parties to catch up, they need to have as much of a headstart as possible.

The thought of Shabrang leads to remembering his uncle and all the people that he left behind.

He misses them. He misses them sorely, even though it has only been half a month.

But chances of them meeting again are very slim.

He knew this when he agreed to come. He knows that he can't go back anymore.

Not that he was planning to go back, anyway.

Kazai says nothing, only a frowned gaze, as he follows his nephew out of the cave.

Daryun sighs and stretches, stepping out of the cave after the two when he finishes doing so. One of Kazai's cats cracks open an eye at him, meowing softly and stretching. Those cats of his are _gigantic_ . They're _Pojera mountain cats_ , if he remembers correctly. Kazai, of course, also gave them individual names, _Reah_ for the white cat and _Reraase_ for the black one.

He looks up at the sky. Another day of their journey, like all previous days, starts at a witching hour. The moon is still high in the sky, and all the birds are still sleeping. Which definitely isn't what they're doing anymore.

Kazai hands him a piece of paper adorned with patterns. An array. Specifically, an array for extra eyesight and sense in the dark.

Daryun huffs and takes it. He puts it on his forehead, letting the array activate properly before taking the paper off. He grabs his bow and quiver.

He finds it difficult to keep his longing and slight despair from rising now that he's faced with a lonely and unsure path ahead, the sun still stubbornly refusing to rise. It would do him no good to hate Areyan, he reasons with himself. Areyan was just a child, a desperate and lonely child, who held him too important to leave behind.

Soft laughter erupts from the boy as his uncle describes a stance in a joking way. Daryun sighs, heartache eased, he turns to head into the woods, with Reah trotting after him.

Time to shoot their breakfast.

  
  
  
  
  


Little puffs of breath emerge into the cool, crisp air, little drops of dew sitting on the blades of grass. Soon those little beads of water will be sent back to the clouds and the blooms and grass will raise themselves up into the sky.

Not too far in front of him, Areyan is running through some stretches and stances, still somewhat half-asleep. Then, without warning, the boy charges towards him.

  
  
  
  
  


Areyan staggers to his feet, ragged breaths creating little puffs of vapour. He wipes the beads of sweat off his face, flashing a smile as he does so. He brings his body into a ready stance, body burning despite the winter winds.

"Again," he says through bared teeth.

Across the clearing, Kazai, his _mentor_ , his _uncle_ , observes him with amusement, body tense yet not in a battle stance.

"Are you sure?" he asks in a teasing tone.

Areyan throws himself at his uncle. That should be good enough of an answer.

He makes a sound of glee and moves to defend himself with a bright smile.

  
  
  


The three of them have their breakfast in a hurry, with Kazai preparing the meal and going through most of the conversation with jokes and stories and _laughter_ , and before Areyan knew it the meal was gone.

Areyan has laughed more in these fifteen days than he had in the whole four months of living in the palace, he realizes. He immediately steers his mind away from that place. He's left it behind. He's not in that place anymore. He shakes his head and pulls his mind back to the present.

Recent days have been filled with focused training and stories about his parents and bonding, filled with affection and care and drawing out his laughter.

It's more than he's ever had.

Daryun has been uncharacteristically quiet ever since the night they escaped, and Areyan feels like he knows the reason why.

Daryun catches him staring at him, and Areyan quickly averts his gaze.

"Oi, Daryun- _braka._ You sure that your friend's in these mountains?" Kazai asks while standing up, likely going to check their belongings before leaving.

Daryun groans. "I am _sure_ ." Areyan wonders how one word could sound so much like a threat. "And I'm not a _brat_. You're not much older than I!"

"Eight years is an absolutely sufficient gap to call you what you are, _braka_ ," he squints his eyes as he grins. "Is your friend even going to be awake, I wonder?" he pauses, "Well, if he ain't awake, we wake him with a good kick."

Areyan sees Daryun groan _again_ before heading after Kazai when his uncle swipes a kick at him.

Daryun hastily steps back to avoid the kick, eyes wide and looking like he wants nothing more than to throw his uncle off the mountain. "The hell was _that_ for?" he yells.

"Oh, shush. It's just a _kick_ . Kids these days… " he says in mock exasperation. "And _Areyan_ , don't you have something to say to him?"

Areyan makes a tiny squeak when he's addressed, but he knows that he'll just be thrown out of the cave if he just refutes. His teeth play with his lip again. He sees Daryun staring at him with a puzzled look.

Might as well get it out.

"Daryun," he calls and walks toward him. "I… I've noticed you have been… not exactly cheerful, and… I… I want to apologize for it." he says while staring at Daryun's face but falling short of his eyes.

"For what, Areyan?" Daryun asks, saying Areyan's name with no difficulty. His expression, though, makes Areyan think that he _knows_. He draws a long breath in preparation.

"You must miss Vaphriz and… and your other friends. I knew you had people you cared about, other… other than me." Actually, he should've, but he _didn't._ His selfishness blinded him, blinded him of that. His voice shakes. "And yet, I asked you to come with me. Now, you can't go back anymore… "

"It's true that you asked me to come with you," says Daryun. "But I _chose_ to come with you. You gave me two options, and I chose you. I knew what I was getting into the moment I accepted. My choice is not your fault. Do you understand?"

Tears prick the corners of his eyes, so he closes them and turns his head to the ground.

Daryun _chose_ him.

He isn't unlovable.

He isn't undesirable.

He isn't-

Daryun circles his arms around his body and pulls him close, gently rubbing circles on his back. Despite the heaviness in his heart, Areyan _leans_ into the warmth of the hug, as nobody had embraced him ever since the day he was brought to the palace.

And all he utters is words of gratitude.

He doubts that a string of shaky " _thank you_ "s will properly express what he is feeling right now, but… 

Right now it's all he can manage.

  
  
  


Daryun looks up from his embrace to see Kazai walking out with all their packs, a sort of approval softening his usually sharp gaze.

"Let's go," he says in an unusually soft tone, at least for Daryun. He is never not soft with his nephew.

After all, who could be?

Areyan raises his head to look at his uncle as well, nodding as he does so.

"Should I carry you?" Daryun asks with a hint of hesitation.

"Absolutely not. I love running." A grin graces his face. Teary, yes. Shaky, yes. But a grin nonetheless.

"Maybe my little nephew will leave you in the dust, _braka_. He's getting faster and faster!"

Daryun huffs and lets go of the boy, standing up and taking his bag from Kazai. "We'll see about that."

Their bags and belongings securely on their backs, they _run_.

  
  
  
  
  


With a great lolloping gait as if their ankles are made of springs rather than bone and flesh, they cover the uneven rocks of the mountain path. It's not even a nice mountain path, no. It's one of those ridiculous paths where the mountain itself is threatening to push travelers _off_. There's only one person's worth of flat space, mountain wall on one side and chasm on the other.

And more often than not that tiny trail is occupied by _mountain goats_.

Daryun feels the urge to just punt the creatures off the damn mountain. Maybe he should do that to the all-too-enthusiastic man since _he was the one who suggested they go this way_.

_Come on_ , he said. _It'll be fun_ , he said.

Well, at least it isn't as disastrous as their first few days with the search party on their tail. _Yet_.

Areyan seems to be genuinely having fun, though. He certainly is taking to this sort of freedom like a bird to the sky.

Areyan runs, like the winter winds colliding into inanimate objects and crashing waves hitting the shore line. Like a bird soaring across the indigo skies, the wind messing with his white hair as he flings himself over sharp rocks and yet _another_ mountain goat.

Damn mountain goats.

Kazai makes sure to at least alter his speed to match theirs, all while constantly whipping his head back to see if they are actually doing well.

He would appreciate the gesture, wholeheartedly, if the man _did not take them to this god damn path in the first place_.

He has to admit, though, that the two of them are surprisingly doing pretty well with this whole run-through-a-ridiculous-trail thing now. They were pretty clumsy and slow, but under Kazai's tutelage, they improved pretty well.

But he won't be caught admitting that Kazai is a great teacher. Oh, definitely not. He's _annoying_.

Daryun also doesn't know how to feel about the _cats_ doing _better_ than them.

Daryun _groans_ as he goes over another pair of _mountain goats._

_Damn mountain goats._

  
  
  
  
  


Elam looks up to the sky as he steps out of the little cabin he and Lord Narsus live in. He abruptly shakes his head when his vision blurs with a wetness in his eyes.

He misses his parents.

He really shouldn't be. This is an honour. A gesture of gratitude. Lord Narsus freed his slaves, including Elam and his parents. So of course he feels grateful.

His parents felt extremely thankful, and that's why they willed him to serve Lord Narsus in return. He's a good lord, a good man, even if apparently something got him kicked out of court or something.

Elam has nothing to do with it, he doesn't need to know.

He's just here to serve him.

Lord Narsus though, as good of a man he is, _is completely hopeless with taking care of himself_.

Elam childishly wonders if this is part of why his parents sent him here.

He sighs and heads for the forest, bow and arrow in hand.

_He really misses his parents_.

  
  
  
  
  


"You shot a bird! That is amazing!"

Elam blinks, takes a moment, and then blinks again.

Standing in front of him, in a spot he could've _sworn_ was empty just moments before, is a _boy_.

"Hi," he says, offering a shy smile to Elam.

Caught in a daze, Elam can only stare. He wants to know who this boy is, wants to know why he hears waves and chimes, wants to know why he smells _sea salt_ in a _forest_.

He doesn't answer.

"My... My name is Areyan. What is yours?" the boy, _Areyan_ says.

Elam looks at him, this boy with messy white _white_ hair and blue _blue blue eyes_ and a _strange_ aura to him yet here Elam stands against all of his senses and all he can say is...

"Elam. I'm Elam."

Something suspiciously like _hope_ blooms in the ocean of his eyes. His lips lift in a way that suggests absolute _glee_ before he says, "Will you be my friend?"

A deep meow cuts Elam from his thoughts. He blinks and his eyes snap to where not one, but _two cats_ , and really big ones at that, are staring back at him.

"They're my uncle's cats!" Areyan says. "The white one is Reah and the black one is Reraase!"

All Elam can utter is, "They're _huge_."

Areyan's smile widens as he steps closer. "Aren't they? And they're so pretty and _strong_ ! Just like _Varishneh_ Kazai!"

"Areyan! Don't run off on your own!" an adult voice calls from behind.

_Wait_.

Why are there people on this side of the mountain? There are only cliffs and _goats_.

_What's going on?_

  
  
  
  
  


Not much later that day he learns that Lord Narsus had a dear friend.

A dear friend who is now pointing a teasing jab at Lord Narsus's _paintings_.

Elam will never understand what Lord Narsus is thinking when he is painting, and he had decided even from his days as a slave that he'd much rather not, thank you very much.

The atmosphere at the table settles somewhat, the adults' faces getting serious. Areyan seems nervous, too.

Their eyes meet, and Areyan _smiles_ . Then he makes a gesture as if to ask, _Aren't you joining us?_

Areyan visibly deflates when Elam shakes his head. Turning his gaze away from the boy, Elam heads to the kitchen. He'll prepare a meal for the guests. That's what he's going to do.

Not running away from the _sea_ , definitely not.

So why does he feel like he's doing just that?

  
  
  
  
  


That damn Daryun just had to get into trouble, didn't he?

Narsus sighs and looks out of the window from where he sits, watching the older man teaching the Crown Prince and Daryun _something._

He'd woken up this morning expecting it to be just another normal day, and look at who came kicking through his front door.

Not literally, of course. But Daryun's voice is loud enough for Narsus to consider it a kick. That bastard.

The Prince ran away from the palace, and is possibly planning to run away from Pars, entirely.

But at the same time, a part of Narsus can't find it in himself to _blame_ the boy, thinks that he might just understand whatever it was that had driven the child away from the Royal Capital, perhaps better than anyone else.

He, too, had gotten up and _left_ , too fed up with that place, that suffocating atmosphere, that talk of _duty_ and _traditions_ and _servitude_.

He can only imagine just how much it had taken for the child to finally snap, imagine just how far Areyan might feel the need to go before he finds some sort of peace.

Before he finds whatever it is that he's undoubtedly looking for out there in the world.

Still, Narsus _hesitates_.

He isn't sure if he wants to leave this little cabin, lonely as it might be.

This is his safe space, alone and hidden from the world.

He _hesitates_.

  
  
  
  
  


"I'm not asking for your _trust_ ," says the man named Kazai. "You're important to the brat who's important to _my_ brat. That's the reason why I ask you to come with us, though that _braka_ should do it himself," he continues with an angerless snarl. "If you don't wanna come, that's _fine_. That brat'll be heartbroken, though. We'll give you three days to think over it."

"Why stay three days? What if I refuse _now_?" Narsus asks, raising an eyebrow at the older man. If they are in so much of a hurry not to get caught, why not just leave right away?

Part of him wants them to _stay_ . Today, at the very least, has been amusing and entertaining and _less lonely_ for him, but Narsus buries that part far beneath.

"Because," Kazai pauses. "Areyan's pretty fond of your little attendant. _I made my first friend!_ he says."

_Oh_.

Come to think of it, hasn't Elam been lonely too? Missing his parents? How had he not paid any mind to the child?

"Elam, was it?" Kazai's gaze sharpens. "How old is that boy?"

"He turned eleven last month," Narsus answers, meeting Kazai's sharp gaze with a steady one.

Elam is young, horrifically young, and yet he's the one who's taking care of _Narsus_ , not the other way around.

Narsus's eyes drift to the window again, through which he sees Ars- _Areyan_ awkwardly approaching Elam with a scroll and brush in hand.

"Don't burn the forest down with that, Areyan!" Kazai is found staring at the same scene as he speaks when Narsus redirects his eyes at the older man.

Seemingly offended at the implication, the boy jerks his head up and cries, " _Varishneh_ Kazai!" in a wounded voice.

Kazai only laughs.

  
  
  
  
  


"Is it true?"

Areyan doesn't have to ask, to know what Elam is asking about. He knows, _he knows_.

He just doesn't want to... He just...

"It's not," he says, wincing at his own tone.

Elam tilts his head in a quizzical expression, and then says, "But you _were before_ , right?"

"The people they send after me... I'm not /me/ to them. I'm not..." ––a small voice, like a silent cry, desperate and pained–– "I'm not _Areyan_ to them. Do you... Do you...?"

They meet each other's eyes, sees the _look_ in their eyes and… 

They realize that it's an all too familiar look.

It's a little boy left behind by his parents, for all their reasons _correct_ and _understandable_ , it still doesn't mean that it doesn't _hurt_ , doesn't mean that he's not _lonely_.

It's another little boy curling up in a corner and just _longing_ and _yearning_ and hating parts of himself because if everyone didn't want to spend time with him, didn't want to _talk_ to him then the problem has to be with him, right?

In that moment, it hits Elam that he _does_ . He _knows_.

While their situations are not identical, maybe even far from even being similar but he _knows_.

He _does_ , he _knows_ , but he doesn't want to say it, because saying it might just _make sure_ that bad things are going to happen to the boy in front of him, because knowing somehow hurts even _more_ , because he knows all too well that there's nothing he can do about it, because there's nothing he can _say_ or _do_ , because the world is uncaring and _strong_ , stronger than two young children.

  
  
  


Narsus covers his face in his hands, hidden from the two children's sight, 

Elam's breath hitches. He opens his mouth.

"I... "

Elam has never sounded so _young_ , so _vulnerable_. He never looked like the lonely and hurting child he actually is, always hidden behind a mask of competence, an armor of duty.

"I'm... "

One choked sob, then another. Then another.

Both children break down into tears.

Narsus decides to leave the children alone, since there's really nothing he can say, no way to intervene without having both of them retreat further into their shells.

So he leaves.

  
  
  
  
  


He finds Daryun among the trees, not far away from where he left the two children, sharpening his sword with two cats in his lap.

"Narsus… ?" He looks up, wearing an expression of concern.

Narsus says nothing.

  
  
  


Kazai observes Areyan and his friend, inwardly noting how the two of them are sitting uncomfortably _close_ to each other.

Speaking of friends sitting uncomfortably close at the dinner table… 

He also sees Daryun and Narsus doing _just that_ , as well, Narsus's eyes strangely tired and his expression somber.

Kazai very much doesn't point anything out to either pair.

  
  
  
  
  


Apparently, Kazai can use magic and is teaching Areyan how to do it too.

And apparently that they can cause _explosions._ Intentionally or _accidentally_.

It all started with Areyan, a piece of paper, and some of Narsus's paint.

Who would've thought such things combined would bring about an _explosion_ of all things?

Narsus is just thankful that, as Kazai said, _at least it didn't happen inside_.

Narsus got curious, so he asked what it was, and then… _Well_.

Who knew that Kazai could lecture and ramble for _hours_ _on end_?

And to Narsus's astonishment, Kazai manages to make it _interesting._

  
  
  


"I can't believe _both_ of them agreed that your paintings are pretty," Daryun says as he steps into the room.

"They _are_ pretty. Don't be jealous," Narsus says, putting his brush down as he turned around.

Daryun retorts, "Why would I be jealous?" Before coming closer but carefully still not looking at whatever Narsus has concocted.

"Are you gonna come? With us?" he asks, fully closing the distance between them.

Narsus thinks of Elam and Areyan, holding onto each other with all they had, thinks of Kazai and his relentless teasing, thinks of what he _has_ to himself here, which is _not much_ , not really.

Will he spend his days in this little hut, and by doing so also tying Elam down to this place because he can't even take care of himself?

Narsus closes his eyes and tries to stop his breath from becoming labored. He faintly registers Daryun's arms around and pressed against him.

They hold, they hold, _they hold on_. Narsus calms, cracks open an eye and...

"I'm coming. I'm... I'm coming with you," he says.

Daryun had asked once yesterday, underneath the trees.

He hadn't been sure, that day. Hadn't been sure of himself, not wanting to give up the new sort of normalcy he's been living through in this hut, alone with Elam. But Elam needs somebody, a _friend_ and… 

Who is to say Narsus doesn't need someone, something to take his mind off this pain?

They are interrupted, not physically, but by a voice, _Kazai's_ voice to be exact, uttering a very loud _"Shit!"_.

They both exit the room to see Kazai holding a small piece of paper in hand, a bird perched on his shoulder.

"What is it?" Narsus asks.

"Looks like Pars somehow caught on that we're here," Kazai says. "They haven't dispatched soldiers from Peshawar from what I know, so we have some time but I'd rather not take any chances."

"So we're leaving tomorrow?" Daryun asks.

"Tomorrow morning would be fine, but I'd prefer tonight," he says, turning to face them. "But before that, are you coming or not?"

Narsus _grins_. "I am."

A light dances in Kazai's eyes as he steps closer to them. "Good to have you with us." He throws a wide grin.

  
  
  
  
  


Packing took only a few minutes, with how little personal belongings Elam has. Not only that, but Kazai helped him along with what appliances and tools they should take. Elam didn't have to worry about weight and space either, since Kazai just collected the stuff with his scroll scribbled with a huge array of storage.

_He's amazing_ , Elam thinks, staring up at the man, who is checking over things one last time.

"Looks like we're set," he says, ruffling Elam's hair.

Elam nods, and they all take their share of scrolls before stepping out of the hut into the night.

  
  
  


Stars fill the sky like pale corn into freshly turned ground. Elam sees Areyan smile, his _friend_ , enjoying the feel of the wind blowing his hair to a mess already.

"Wait, Kazai," Daryun suddenly cuts through the silence. "Which way are we going?"

"Huh? Didn't we all agree that we'll go to Gilan?" Kazai replies.

"No, not that!" he says. "I'm asking which path are we going to follow?"

"Aren't we following this trail?" Narsus asks as he points to the smooth, gentle slope right in front of the hut.

Kazai _grins_.

"Damn bastard. You better not be thinking of _that_ kind of trail!"

Kazai snorts. "Oh, I still have _some_ mercy in me. I'm going to choose a path kinder than yesterday!"

"You're still not going to go from the kindest path. Which is _sitting here. Right in front of us_." Daryun groans, ignoring the confused looks of the newcomers.

"What is this all about?" Elam leans to Areyan and whispers to him.

"Oh, remember the side of the mountain where we met? Well, we climbed the mountain from that side."

Elam's face freezes, trying and failing to produce a single word.

"Oh, don't make that face, lad. I said I'd choose a kinder path! I just don't want to go along the main road! We'd run into them!"

"I understand that you don't want us to get caught, but this is _outrageous!_ "

"No, it's not!"

"Varishneh Kazai?" Areyan tugs on his sleeve. "It isn't like that one from yesterday, right?"

"That's what I've been saying, braka. Trust me, it'll be nothing they can't handle!"

"It better be true," Daryun says, already looking _tired_.

Kazai steps away from the main path, instead heading into the woods. "Off we go!" he says.

They go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite everything, I am still not fully satisfied with this chapter, unfortunately. I was struggling with Narsus in particular. But I hope you enjoy in anyways!
> 
> Those foreign words, they are Marda words that I made up!
> 
> Braka = brat
> 
> Varishneh = a term of respect used to refer to one's male teachers, mentors, seniors or older relatives
> 
> Pojera = north, northern
> 
> Originally, Gieve was supposed to come in this chapter, the original order going Gieve -> Elam -> Narsus but I'm glad I ditched that idea before I wrote it because an idea for him suddenly graced my mind and now I want to do his introduction in a slightly different way.
> 
> Due to conflicting information regarding Elam's age, I decided to emergency-headcanon my way through that topic. Weird, since it didn't even show up in more than one piece of dialogue.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM INCREDIBLY SORRY FOR THE LATE CHAPTER D:

The horse trots down a rocky path bracketed in trees, the idle morning birdsongs failing to put the rider's mind at ease.

Farangis is on her own now, she knows. She has been for most of her life, has been since her parents left the living realm.

She's been living in a colourless world where silence and cold stares seem to ring louder and the emptiness cuts sharper than it really should be.

Farangis had hoped and dreamed that the Temple of Mithra would be _better_ , would heal her from the empty haze of summer heat that seems to surround her at all places and all times, but… 

She's already used to it anyways. Aghriras's presence did colour her monotone world, as short as their time together was. He did bring colour, even if the colours turned rotten and twisted near the end.

She's been sent out to search for the Prince on her own, a pang of frustration coursing her heart even if she knows she ought to be honoured about it.

She's been kicked out with a flimsy excuse, an impossible task.

She would've been content, would've accepted the temple as her _home_ , if not for… 

She's… not sure what it was, actually.

The Djinn are restless in the same way they were on a certain night, in the way they have been continuously ever since.

She woke to the Djinn's voices one particular night, confused and disoriented but still sensing _something_ , as did the spirits.

They then find out the next morning that there had been an attempt at doing away with the Prince's life.

Nobody from the temples believed that it was mere coincidence.

But the King is not a superstitious man, does not believe in such things as spirits and the Djinn, and such there was nothing the priests and priestesses could do, lest they enrage the _Shah_.

The Djinn speak of it, describe it in ways she cannot comprehend. It seems to have been subdued from its initial awakening, but _there_ regardless.

She cannot comprehend what the Djinn have been trying to describe ever since that night, but—

She'd found herself yearning for something she doesn't know. A place unknown, stranger to her but home anyways. Dreams of bright laughter and salt carried in the wind fill up the void in her heart left by Aghriras and her departed family, her mundane routines suddenly becoming _not enough_.

Something inside of her _calls_ , for things she doesn't have a real name for, for things that she doesn't quite _know_.

Despite her vast knowledge as one of the best priestesses, only the word _home_ ever comes close to that aching sort of longing that threatens to tear her apart.

"… _Home_ ," she whispers softly to the trees, to the wind, to the Djinn.

The wind _surges_ as if in response. For a moment, a flash between one breath and the next, her lungs are filled with what she _knows_ is sea-salt air, pale moonlight cast upon her with wind chimes as the music in the air, just as she felt that one night. Bright and dazzling but _cold_ and _biting_ , wild and raging beneath the surface.

Her heart stops as she recalls the stories her late mother told in a hushed voice, the stories of a magical kingdom hidden away, faraway from the world.

This isn't logical, isn't possible, because she's far, far away from the sea, far, far away from the blue waters and open skies, all alone among rocky walls and quiet trees.

And yet, her heart extends to the song, to the longing, like a child refusing to let go of her favourite toy.

Then, between one second and the next, as quickly as it had appeared, it’s _gone._

But still she is spared of the heat of the Parsian sun, clouds stubbornly blocking the golden rays from reaching down to earth.

The second month is hardly a prime time for the sun, after all.

  
  
  


But then Farangis feels her world _freeze_ , feels all of her senses sharpen, her crystal flute secured between her lips, bow and arrow in hand.

"Who's there?" she barks to the empty air, her body tense and still.

Someone descends from the trees swiftly, smiling sweetly at her as he straightens up and says, "Ah, please excuse me. I am a mere wandering minstrel whose heart was captured by your peerless beauty."

Farangis might've bought that façade of cheer, if not for the fact that she sees the edge of _something_ lurking in his eyes. Sharp, she thinks, like shards of a broken urn. Like a stone sharpened into jagged edges that cuts and tears.

The Djinn confirms her thoughts.

"May I know your name, beauty? I would love to carve it in my heart, for such beauty as yours should not be left forgotten."

The Djinn shift.

"My name is Farangis," she says, posture stiff and hand still grasping her bow. "I serve a _Temple of Mithra_ in the Khuzestan region."

The young man's face is still frozen, stilted in that fake smile of his, eyes boring into her own.

"Oh, Mithra! The god of oaths and covenants! It must be destiny that we are of the same faith!" he says, flippant and unnecessarily gestured.

Farangis narrows her eyes, crystal flute asking the Djinn of what she already knows.

_He's lying._

"My lady, may I ask where you are headed to? Such a beauty should not be travelling alone, I say! How about you explore the world with me, and leave the Temple behind?" He walks up to her horse.

Brows furrowing, her free hand slowly reaches for her quiver. "The Temple dispatched me as a helping hand on the cause of searching for His Highness Arslan the Crown Prince. I have a single query to make of you. Are you possibly aware of the whereabouts of His Royal Highness?"

The young man's face falls before it is fixed in an instant. She would've missed it if she were not keeping a vigilant eye on this fellow.

Dread pools in her heart.

The air suffocates them both, stiff and still as a statue, neither taking their eyes off the other. The Djinn shift and whirl and dart in frenzy, quaking and swaying the trees all around them.

"Why are you looking for the Prince, my lady Farangis?"

He's still carrying himself flippantly but his voice and eyes do not carry the enthusiasm.

"You have not answered my inquiry," she states.

"Ah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck in what seems like a sheepish action, "I'm afraid I do not know."

_He's lying_.

The next few seconds pass rather quickly. Leaping away, he narrowly avoids an arrow to the head while taking cover in the trees.

"Such aggressiveness does not fit a beauty like yours, Lady Farangis!" he shouts, peering down from up in the branches. "Why do you attack me?"

Hissing a breath through gritted teeth, she aims another arrow at him as she says, "Where is His Royal Highness? Speak, you vagabond."

"Like I said, I am not—"

"According to the Djinn, you spoke nothing but lies." There is no civility in her voice. "Speak. Where is the Prince?" she snaps.

His eyes widen before his face contorts into a snarl, groaning as he mutters something under his breath, eyes averting her gaze for just a while.

Then?

Then his eyes meet hers, a sort of danger swirling behind them.

  
  
  


Gieve knows what grief is.

He is, after all, the only surviving member of his blood family, is the last of a tribe of joyful wanderers passing tales from one place to another, eradicated for no reason at all.

Gieve knew grief since he was so _young_ , gentle hands of a then stranger soothing him as he cried and cried and cried.

Gieve knows what grief is.

He had again lost his new family, lost the people he had admired and loved, lost the people who found him and saw a crying child instead of a vermin.

The boy had greeted him with eyes so _blue_ they make a small, _young_ part of him ache for someone long gone.

That person was too young to actually be his mother but that didn't stop him from calling her _mama_ anyways.

_It wasn't supposed to end like that. None of it was supposed to be like that._

_They were supposed to be happy._

"Why do you look for the Prince?" he asks, voice low. "Is it because your higher-ups ordered you so?"

"I am carrying out the will of the Temple and the _Shah_ , to ensure that the Prince is safe and sound. I am fulfilling my duty, as I should."

The fact that the very same man that had done away with his second family is now hunting down _their_ child shakes Gieve just enough that he feels as though he's being eaten away at the edges.

No doubt the accursed King will lock up the boy, never to see daylight again. The thought is enough to fracture him just a bit.

Had they not suffered enough? Had they not taken the boy from them _once_? Why should he be stuck in an isolated bubble where nobody appreciates him at all?

"Safe and sound?" he asks softly, _viciously_ . "That's all? Is being safe _enough_ ? What of his happiness?" His voice rises slowly. "Is he not a human child to you lot? Do they even _care_ whether he is happy or not?"

  
  
  


Shock registers on Farangis's face before she hurriedly hides it. She... wasn't expecting this. The Djinn whisper of his anger and malice, evident in broad daylight. The golden rays burn her skin.

"You dare assume that us Parsian citizens do not care for the Prince's wellbeing? Well, do you? Do you care for him, as we do?"

"We do. More than you. More than all of you."

She furrows her brows at him, eyes and senses and _soul_ searching, but she can't find any trace of deception in his words.

The Djinn does not contradict her.

_"Leave us alone,"_ the self-proclaimed minstrel hisses through his bared teeth.

  
  
  
  
  


He closes his eyes and tries to focus himself into a meditative state. Areyan's _Magoya_ reached out to him on the fateful day his whole world was turned upside-down, and has been using it under the absent guidance of his uncle, who sent instructions via Reah and Reraase.

He quite likes his _Magoya_ , steady and tranquil like a rather pleasant night, cool like the shade and shelter a tree or a building may provide, a protection against the unforgiving sun.

However, there has been something he's begun to notice as he meditates every day, For all that the _surface_ is unmoving, something swirls and moves and churns far beneath, and Areyan hasn't been sure on approaching it before.

He somehow feels as though that deep, deep deep part is where the call comes from, where his dreams dwell, where his mother's voice came from that night.

He reaches out to it hesitantly, pausing when he almost, _almost_ reaches it.

It's a part of him, so why does he hesitate?

He reaches further, further, further and—

_hatehatehatehatehatepainsorrowgriefangertheykilledusthekilledustheykilledus_

It rushes around him, envelops him, _overwhelms_ him. Just when he thinks he's about to drown, it pushes him out.

He backs out, lets go of it and hastily opens his eyes, finding himself to be panting with a fist over his heart.

The intensity of the depths doesn't quite reach up to the outside, but he still feels a hint of _sorrowgriefangerpain_ , an underlying current setting the tranquil surface into motion, sending ripples and waves through it all.

Yet with those comes a feeling of familiarity, of home, of laughter, of joy, of safety. With the want to kill comes the urge to protect, with hate comes love, with anger comes hope.

He is snapped out of his own spinning mind by a deep meow, Reah the majestic floof meeting his eyes while stepping into his lap.

A figure drops down from the branches above as he starts petting the ball of fluff, breath still not as steady as he wants.

"You woke up?" the girl asks.

" _Ranna_ , I wasn't asleep." He looks up and then averts his gaze.

He looks at Ranna and sees _her_ –

Someone he'd much rather not see.

Ranna's peachy blonde hair sways in the breeze, her eyes not leaving his figure one bit. "But you look like you had a nightmare."

He dreams of Mardalia. He dreams of _home_ , of a city, solitary yet not alone, tranquil yet energetic. He dreams of playful waves and the winter moon, of a place long gone but oh so beautiful.

One time he was an owl, perched on his favourite branch of the _Eapusa_ , ruffling his white, white feathers as he looked upon the city below.

One time he was a hound, snarling and ripping intruders apart as the citizens fled but the onslaught was too _large_ and no matter how much he and his people tried, it _wasn't wasn't wasn't enough and screams shattered the silence and there was so much blood—_

Another time he was a messenger bird, shot down by the enemies, his last memories consisting of the iron-perfume of blood and so much _pain_ , the cold bite of the frost a final comfort in his last moments.

_(They got too complacent in peace, war being on the bottom of the priority list, so, so underprepared_ –)

After so many dreams (so many _memories_ ) of the battlefield, the people, _his people_ , the Marda fighting to the last, last breath with all means necessary but still being _not enough_ , finally, _finally_ the clangor of swords had died away, the shouting of the slaughter was hushed; silence lay on the red-stained snow. The pale sun shone so blindingly on the ice-fields and snow-covered plains where the dead lay in heaps.

Many nights he'd woken up in cold sweat and tears and a pounding heart threatening to jump out of his ribcage, many nights his uncle and whoever that was on watch shift that night had soothed him back to sleep, many nights he'd just try and burrow closer to Elam.

His uncle had been visibly worried, often muttering a word over and over when he thinks Areyan's asleep, rubbing circles on his back until he falls asleep.

"You okay? Should I call _Varishneh_ Kazai?"

"No, I'm fine." A sigh escapes as he stands, cradling Reah in his arms.

Reah is _heavy_.

The cat smacks at him, as if it heard his thoughts. Areyan laughs softly.

Ranna hums in thought. "If you say so," she shrugs before plopping her hand on Reah's head.

"Where's Elam?" he asks.

"Elam? Oh, he's with the others." She leaps up just enough to place a firm grip on the lowest branch. "They're going to play tag, let's go!"

After setting Reah down gently, Areyan follows suit with a laugh, scaling up a tree and disappearing into the branches and leaves.

In his former seat remains a patch of frost.

  
  
  
  
  


High pitched giggles ring through the air from among the leaves, with soft, quiet footfalls— barely, _barely_ audible— patter through the leaves and the branches of the tall, towering trees. Following the rhythmic sounds are the soft swishes of the children's clothes brushing against the leaves and the empty air.

Narsus sits in one of the should-be-impossible tree camps, the children's laughter in his ears as his eyes scan a sample array that Kazai had given him to study.

"I swear they're _monkeys_ ," says Daryun, huffing in mock exasperation. He enters the tent to sit next to Narsus. "Have I told you about the damn _mountain goat path?_ "

"You have," Narsus looks up with a raised eyebrow. "Many times. In a _painfully detailed way_."

Daryun _laughs_. "You didn't believe me the first time around."

"Excuse me for using logic to decide whether something is possible or not!"

"Pretty big assumption to lump _Kazai_ and _logic_ together, I would say."

But Narsus isn't done ranting, no. "Running up and about in _witching hours_ , one would think we're raving mad!" says Narsus, throwing his hands up. "Also, don't you act haughty with me, I know you wake up _later_ than them!"

"I still wake up earlier than you." Daryun grins, hands gesturing his signature expression of "what-are-gonna-do-about-it".

"Oh, shut it."

  
  
  


The impossible tent falls into companionable silence, with Narsus going back to squinting his eyes at the array and Daryun silently wondering what Narsus could make in the future, with slowly increasing horror.

Oh, let them not be as horrible as his paintings, _no._

He perks up when a shadow falls onto his line of vision, Kazai's entrance making no sound. He raises an eyebrow at the man. "Kazai."

"Hey, _braka_." He sits down across them, legs crossed. "Hard at work, I see," he says to Narsus.

"I wanted to ask you about something." Narsus turns to face Kazai. "How long are we camping here?"

_Not for that long_ , Daryun reckons. Kazai has taken every measure to not let their pursuers catch up to them. He is not a man to take chances and risks.

"No more than five days," he answers. "We'll head straight for Gilan after that. Meet up with that friend of yours, stock up some supplies then off to the sea." He starts fiddling with his hair absently. "Better to be on guard, though. The information I got is rather worrying."

To that Narsus says nothing. He had hoped that things wouldn't come to this. Shaghad wasn't supposed to just _give up_.

_What happened? Was his friend always like this and he just didn't notice?_

_Should he have known?_

He's holding onto the rather small hope that he'd be able to convince his old friend to pick up his ideals again.

He is aware, of course, that if things go wrong between them…

_Well._

"Still, that's a rather impressive network you've got," says Daryun. "Will they be joining us?"

"Eventually, yeah."

"You say that we'd be off to sea," says Narsus. "Do we even have a ship?"

"We got this," Kazai says, a wide toothy grin splitting his face.

Daryun sighs. "Do I want to know how?"

Kazai grins even wider. "If it comes to worst, we'll just rob from some pirates!"

"That's not reassuring at all!" Kazai laughs while Narsus tries to fake a cough. It doesn't work.

"I'm sure the crew over there got it handled," Kazai says when he is _finally_ done laughing. "They're led by none other than the _best_."

"Oh? That's interesting. Who is this _best_ that you speak of?" Narsus puts a hand back down from trying to disguise his laughs as coughs.

Daryun's been friends with him long enough. He was _laughing_.

Damn bastard.

"You'll see, you'll see!" Kazai exaggerates a wave as he stands up. "I'm gonna go back to round, maybe catch something while I'm at it."

"Want me to tag along?" Daryun asks, about to stand up himself.

"No, no. Stay with the kids. I'll tell them to round up." He walks towards the exit. "Remember the signs?" He turns back, eyes questioning.

Daryun rolls his eyes. "You shoved them into our heads the moment we joined. Of course _we do_."

"Just making sure, making sure." Kazai shrugs. "Well then, I'll be off!" With that, he hops out of the tent and probably to a nearby branch.

  
  
  


A dozen or so children sit under one of the larger tents, with Hal and other adults looking after them. A couple of adults, including their acting leader, went out to round the area.

" _Venhu_ Gieve sure is taking a _long_ walk," says Ranna, cheeks puffed up.

"I'm sure he has a reason to be late, Ranna," says Hal, a gentle hand patting her peachy blonde hair. "Be patient."

Ranna huffs and crosses her arms. "I _am_ patient!"

Hal says nothing in response, looking over her head and doing a quick head count. Yep, that's everyone.

  
  
  


Their days start before the sun rises, before the songs of birds can fill up the silent air at the break of dawn.

The children's time is mostly spent on playing in the trees, with the adults teaching them how to roll across any surface, how to absorb impact upon falling, and so on. They leap from one branch to another, grips firm and feet silent, as the adults guide them through various games.

Then the children are ushered into the tents when they get tired, huddling close and doing non-physical activities. Sometimes they are made to meditate, sometimes they sit through a lecture of spells and arrays, sometimes they are drawn into what seems like simple games and questions and conversations.

  
  
  


Everyone laughs as Ranna pretends to be _Gieve_ of all people, repeating what lines she's heard from him in a game of play-acting.

Across from her, Elam sputters, unsure of how to respond. He's playing the role of a merchant's son, apparently.

"These are not mere games, are they?" Narsus scoots closer to Hal, his voice barely a whisper.

To that, Hal blinks. "What makes you say that?"

Narsus does not take his eyes off the "stage". Daryun is seen near the front with Areyan in his lap. He looks like he doesn't know if he wants to sputter or laugh.

"Question games can become information gathering," says Narsus. "Keep away games teach them how to avoid enemies. They learn how to run in formation from tag. All physical games take place in impossible terrains. And this," He points at the play-acting children, "could develop into personas and disguises."

Not to mention that Kazai has dragged both Daryun and him into playing tag with the kids _in the trees_ too many times. No protests or saying that they were not children anymore could stop the man from dragging them along.

After a moment of silence, Hal lets out a soft chuckle. "You're right, _Venhu_ Narsus," he says. "You catch on fast."

"Of course a man like him would prepare _everyone_ for _everything_." He shrugs. "I expect nothing less from that man."

Their attention turns back to the acting when Ranna's ridiculous dialogue is accompanied by a roar of laughter.

"What am I supposed to say to that?!"

"Act shy! Blush! That's how I've seen girls react to _Venhu_ Gieve!"

_"But I'm not a girl!"_

Laughter roars again, and blood rushes to Elam's face and ear tips in response.

"Look, you're _already_ blushing!"

"Excuse me," Hal says to Narsus as he stands up and goes over to the stage. Narsus nods, and keeps watching as the young man exchanges a few words with Elam, then taking his place as the merchant's _son_ or _daughter_ or whatever gender the child was supposed to be.

He plops his hand on Elam's head when the boy sits next to him, grinning as Elam blushes.

Other children replace the pair, replaced by another pair, then another, and then it's Areyan and Daryun's turn.

He finally laughs when Daryun ends up speechless by Areyan's own brand of craziness.

  
  
  
  
  


When aid came for the minstrel, she wasn't expecting him to know who her mother was. She didn't expect the first thing he said to be a question _if_ _she was her mother's child._

Many questions and snapping and confusion later, she was somehow drawn into their band.

_"Come_ _and see,"_ the man said. _"We'll prove to you that he belongs with us."_

It's outlandish. It's not a logical thing to say or offer to a supposed _enemy_ . She paused as the spirits confirmed that he was _genuine_.

Emerald met emerald as she contemplated, disturbed by the fact that he somehow reminded her of her mother.

At last, she accepted, and followed them to their camp.

  
  
  


Farangis sits near the smokeless campfire, a small bowl in hand as she watches some children play a game of "who can stay like this longer", with the younger children mimicking the older ones, others cheering and yelling "come on, come on!" as the children try to maintain their position for longer and longer and longer.

The man named Kazai and a blond man are discussing something amongst all the noise while the former warrior in black is snacking on something as he watches the Prince and another child do their thing.

And then there's the minstrel, hovering around her like a fly, making pointless noise. A boy in his late teens comes towards them and drags Gieve away from her with an apologetic smile.

Farangis isn't one for noise and bustle and _people_ in general, preferring the forests with the hushed rustle of leaves and the whispers of the Djinn, rather than people. Maybe it's because she's so used to silence, used to being alone in an empty house, both parents gone, that too much noise seems... _upsetting_. Quiet, Farangis thinks (lies to herself), is a comfort.

But these people? They're not leaves of a tree, whistling and rustling as they brush against each other. They're waves, crashing against stone and cliffs, roaring and churning. Both children and adults laugh and roar and tease, in a way that she has never experienced before, not really.

Somewhere to the right, the Prince and another boy sit under a tree, a piece of parchment spreaded out before them, ankles hooked together and bodies leaning against each other. Pointing at parts of the pattern displayed, the two of them mutter back and forth, eyes and mind fully focused.

The whole scene before her has a certain quality of surrealism, with the way they seem so _close_ , and how the Prince seems so _happy_ because of it. She wonders if this is what the minstrel meant by saying that they were the ones who truly had the best for the Prince in mind.

He had introduced himself as _Areyan_ , not _Arslan_ and emphasized that he is now no longer the Prince.

Just a boy.

A happy one.

The Djinn had confirmed that.

But the Djinn also hover around this child, whispering and chattering about things she cannot understand. She suspects that whatever entity that had unsettled the Djinn that night has something to do with this boy.

There is a force pulling her, preventing her from leaving them, but especially _Areyan_. She doesn't understand, but the windchimes and waves and moonlight doesn't leave her heart.

She doesn't understand.

So she's going to observe, going to try to _know_ what's actually the truth, what is happening and why.

She will stay with this clan until she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter. THIS CHAPTER.
> 
> Took three rewrites and I am still NOT satisfied with it. I had originally planned to deal with the Zott Clan and have a glimpse of the wolf siblings (I'm gonna call them that from now on XD) in this chapter but it went "lol nope :D" at my outlines not once, not twice, THRICE.
> 
> Also, can I just say that dialogue is pain? Bc it is pain.
> 
> Anyways, I AM quite happy with how Farangis and Gieve turned out so yaaay for that!!
> 
> Here's to hoping that chapter 5 will be more cooperating than this one.
> 
> You can come and yell at me on tumblr! https://amelimiles.tumblr.com/
> 
> You can also join my ArSen discord! It's lonely! https://discord.gg/D5Ga73Y


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